Sensitive Soul of Steel
by Lutralutra
Summary: Missing scene towards the end of "The Train Job" – how the Captain wound up in his newly appointed doctor's office. Simon, Mal, and the beginnings of what could be friendship.


I'd been wanting to get back in fanfiction but wasn't finding inspiration anywhere for it, so when I rented the first DVD of _Firefly _and liked the characters – especially Dr. Simon Tam – I decided to try running with them a little. Or at least two of them. Plus, I've never written a missing scene before –although this one kind of spills over into the next non-missing scene – so I thought it was a good opportunity. It's short, but I hope it pleases.

Disclaimer: I don't own _Firefly._

Other related notes: Thus far I've only actually watched the first two episodes – "Serenity" and "The Train Job" – so if anything I've written here doesn't match up with something that happens later on, I apologize. Also, I don't have any medical know-how, so if there are inaccuracies on that front too, I apologize yet again.

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**Sensitive Soul of Steel**

All in all, Mal was feeling pretty satisfied with himself. He hadn't made any money that day – in fact he'd probably made himself an enemy – but he could think about that later (or never), and in the meantime, he hadn't left a village of sick people to suffer and die in exchange for his own profit. Not bad, really; to use the corny expression, he had, he felt, "done the right thing". Not to mention it wasn't every day that you got to witness a big, ugly, blustering lug with no mercy or conscience get sucked into an engine.

So, when he turned around in the cockpit to find Dr. Simon Tam standing in the doorway, posture straight and hands behind his back schoolboy-style, he was in a good enough mood to ask jauntily, "Something you need, Doc?"

"Nothing whatsoever, thank you," came the ready, polite reply. "I've been very well taken care of so far. However, I was given to believe that you might be in need of me."

Mal paused. "I see. And why would I be in need of you?"

"You're injured," Simon answered simply. When Mal just looked at him thoughtfully, the young man hastened to add, a bit more uncertainly, "And I'm a doctor."

"Right. Who put you up to this?"

Simon looked startled – honestly, while he was pretty wooden most of the time, the kid really had no idea how to hide emotion at all, his face was an open book – but recovered quickly. "Zoe may have..._encouraged _me, Captain, but I had noticed earlier. You conceal your weaknesses well, but with all due respect, I'm trained to see pain."

Mal searched those deep, unflinching blue eyes for a moment, and believed him. He was perceptive, he _was _trained, and he was sensitive in a way that not many people the worldly captain had met before were – which meant that if there was anything he'd see before the rest, it probably was pain. Still, Mal hoped there was some steel behind that sensitivity, because the life Simon Tam had just signed onto was far from painless, and if he wanted to live it, then he'd have to deal with that.

"Well, it's lucky that you also happen to be trained to treat it then, ain't it?" Mal said airily, purposely ignoring the real point of the conversation.

To his credit, the doc had patience. He let the flippant remark pass with a quick, genuine smile – for a guy like that, so serious all the time, it was funny how fast his face could light up – and agreed quietly, "Yes, it is."

Mal fixed him with a look again, but what worked on most people didn't seem to work on Simon Tam, who seemed perfectly unperturbed by the patented Captain stare-down. He just stared right back, managing to look innocent yet sage at the same time, youthful yet mature. It was annoying – _unbelievably _annoying – but in spite of himself, Mal found himself more impressed than insulted. Even after having been punched twice by him, held at gunpoint by him, and repeatedly threatened with death by him, the doc still wasn't intimidated by him. Well, how about that.

It was no great accomplishment, of course, but it was enough. The desire to do one's job properly, and persistence – to a point – ought to be rewarded, after all. With an exaggerated sigh, Mal pushed himself up out of his chair – he almost couldn't hold back a wince as he did so, and fine, maybe he could use a little patching up – and strode over to Simon, who took a slightly stumbling step back to make way for him. Mal allowed himself a brief smile – could be the doc was just a _bit _intimidated by him, then.

"Lead the way, Doc. Work your magic. And it'd better be good."

"I won prizes for best sutures at the Academy," Simon replied smoothly. And despite Mal's snort at the cockiness in that voice – he wasn't even going to ask if it was a joke or if they really had stitching competitions at that rich kids' institute – somewhere deep inside he found himself slightly reassured by the young medic's confidence.

A couple of minutes later in the infirmary, he was slipping off his shirt – Simon didn't even offer to help him, smart move by the doc – and settling himself gingerly down on the patients' chair. He hated that chair – it wasn't even comfortable, and it reeked of relinquishing control of one's own well-being and placing it in the hands of a nerve-grating rich upstart – but at least it kept him more or less at eye level with his healer.

He had to admit (well, not out loud, but still), to all appearances Simon had the skill to back up his self-assurance. The doctor was clinical and composed to a fault, flicking on the garish surgical light and setting efficiently to work. He didn't so much as blink as he swabbed the small gash in Mal's shoulder with disinfectant, detachedly ignoring his patient's corresponding hiss, and dabbed away the remnants of blood around the hole as naturally and routinely as if he could do it in his sleep. And he threaded the stitches through the wound with enough care to convince you he was doing a good job of it, yet not with so much care that it made you edgy. So he hadn't been lying about the top three percent, then. A point in his favour.

Mal was forced to almost immediately subtract that point again when Simon rebuked him dispassionately, "You should've let me do this sooner." Annoying all right.

"Oh, I've had plenty worse," he took the liberty of assuring the medic, "it's just a – _owww!_" That yank had been _completely _on purpose, and no, it wasn't just him_. _

Minus about a dozen more points when Simon dared to look him in the eyes for a moment, definite amusement visible there before his lips quirked and he offered a soft – but by no means apologetic - "Sorry."

"Just be careful," the Captain ordered tetchily. Apparently there _was_ a layer of steel under that vulnerably cautious surface. Good to know.

After all, any medic of _Serenity_'s had to have a fair amount of guts.


End file.
